


A Pit of Snakes

by smilingcrescent



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Budding relationships, Character Study, Homecoming, Identity, M/M, Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 20:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingcrescent/pseuds/smilingcrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No. 6 had too many past crimes to truly transcend its corrupted existence. Shion works to remedy a generation of ignorance and selfishness, but in four years, how much can really change? Shion is celebrated a humanitarian thinker on the committee, but also branded as the ring-leader against those formerly with power. Nezumi returns to the snake-pit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter deals with pre-novel epilogue, setting up the last scene Nezumi & Shion talk to each other. After that, we deal with Nezumi & Shion separately as they build their own lives apart. The latest chapter deals with Nezumi returning...and the story he first tells Shion.  
> Character driven. Critique accepted and appreciated!

Part 1: Fading light. by 

The world stands on a thin sheet of ice. Shion’s eyes flick between Nezumi and Inukashi. He can tell the conversation isn’t an easy one, and that it covers more than just what they’re actually saying. Unease makes Shion pause, watching tight smiles that barely hide their teeth.

At times like this, Shion still feels like he’s the only one on the fringes, on the outside of the conversation. No words come to mind.

Nezumi is stronger than Shion was ready to admit. His bullet wounds seemed healed, even when Inukashi’s singed hair hasn’t made a full recovery yet.

Inukashi licks her lips and swings her bag onto her shoulder. It’ a new bag, one filled with with baby clothes and cloth diapers, baby soaps and powders. A gift, she’d said, but Shion thought it might be _used_ , maybe picked out of someone’s house in the confusion after everything. After all, riots and raids were an everyday event, in spite of the mob Shion stopped that night. People in the West District were too desperate, too starved to stay away from the people who kicked them down.

Even now, Shion imagines he hears the sounds of a break-in-- the wailing of a child, or sounds of glass breaking, and feet scuttling in through windows or doors. But he shakes his head free of that-- there’s no one breaking in, at least not near here. He tries to slow his racing heart, to rid his mind of the chaotic images lurking just behind even the the most casual observation.

_Take deep breathes. Think of something peaceful, something calm._

Shion remembers the thin boy who he opened the window for all those years ago and considers. Remember the pattern on the curtains, the howling wind, the trees hitting the window.

He wonders if the lack of storm today is some sort of omen, some sort of sign. As sure as he is that he opened the window in order to meet Nezumi, he’s sure now that he has some role to help Nezumi along, even if Nezumi himself insisted on leaving.

Nezumi didn’t say goodbye four years ago...it was like he went out with the storm.

Shion blinks, refocusing on the scene before him. Inukashi scowls at Nezumi, her thin fingers clenching into a fist. “I ain’t pretending, you cursed lying con-man! Sion is mine. Who gives a fuck if the bag belonged to some rich lady?”

Nezumi snorts, the familiar, cool smile on his lips. His grey eyes flash over to Shion, as though he feels his gaze. Some hint of the cornered predator is in those wary silvery-gray eyes.

_He said he was afraid of me..._ Shion shivers even in the sunlight, wondering how much of him actually is a monster. He killed a man, and is one of two known parasite-bee survivors.

_Monster._ the word sears through his memory, overlaying his mental image of the correctional facility. _3rd floor, security camera on two sides. Blind spot every 25 seconds, 45 degree angle..._

“...spend my money, or are you going to gorge on the pickings of a dead giant?”

“Damn straight I’ll live off the pickings.” Inukashi spits, her lips working into a frown. “‘d be stupid not to.”

Nezumi shrugs, but even that movement is fluid, graceful. As though he’s performing his final soliloquy before a dramatic exit.

It’s not Nezumi, but Inukashi that stops walking. She fixes Shion with a hard, measuring look, and seems to reach some decision. “catch you later, Shion.” she says, and merely nods to Nezumi. As though this was any other day, any other goodbye. She turns around to walk back through the tunnel, silhouetted in the light.

Shion falls into pace next to Nezumi, and smiles, albeit distractedly. “I still haven’t finished that book.”

Nezumi only looks at him, a tired sort of confusion overtaking his features.

“The one about the man who sells his soul to the devil.”

Nezumi nods, and offers a ghost of a smile. “Getting lazy about reading, then? You had plenty of time while in the hospital.” The smile lengthens, coming closer to real amusement.

He hadn’t really had time. Not after being named specifically to rebuild the city. Shion wonders how the story ends. He laughs, pleased to be thinking about books. “Only a bookworm like you, or should I say book mouse? would say so. I could barely remember all of those people’s names.”

Nezumi fixes him with such a look-- the same suspicious, considering look he uses whenever Shion begins to irritate him. “You’re lying. There’s no way you’d forget anything.”

Shion smiles again. “You know, I’m really not a computer. I have to make effort to remember something, or else I just filter it out. I couldn’t manage to do anything if I had to remember every tiny detail I ever heard or saw.”

Nezumi shrugs again, but some of the tension is gone, falling off him like dew drops rolling down a blade of grass.

They reach the wall, and climb over and through it without event. Even this barren landscape is a tiny patch of life...a rodent scurries over rusted rocks, and a lizard hides in the yellow grass. The wind tousles their clothing and a few wild flowers.

They walk in silence, drinking up the landscape. The farther they get from the skeleton of the wall, the more things start to look like the home Shion found. They walk up an incline, Shion slowly settling into a resigned, if not relaxed mood. He could almost feel hopeful, like they were walking back to the underground room.

Nezumi’s silence and quiet mood suggests otherwise, though. He’s ready to leave the city behind. Leave the city he worked so hard and so long to tear apart.

Shion wonders how far this place is from his usual way into the city, mentally calculating distance and topography. He spots a small hill before them, and picks up his pace to match Nezumi’s long strides.

Soon. He’ll tell Nezumi soon. The words and feelings are bubbling up inside, mixed up but still there, anxious to be sorted through.

The wind hums, and Nezumi sighs.

The sky spreading over the small hill in the West District is remarkably blue.

* * *


	2. Rebuild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble visits Shion at his volunteer clinic.

**Rebuild.** by Smilingcrescent

Shion doesn’t look up from his work when the door opens. The door of the clinic is always opening and closing, after all. Young men or women with a gash from a work accident, or older men or women with a broken bone, or a hardened old woman who just wanted trustworthy medicine were likely to come in at any time of day, after all.

Not even the sudden quieting of voices distracts him; he’s so intent on stitching up the laborer’s hand. He had said a rope suddenly snapped. The ripped palm of his hand, embedded with fiber and cut open wide seemed to support his story.Shion isn’t using any anesthetic—just an antiseptic solution to prevent infection after scrubbing to remove dirt, and tweezers to remove the rope fiber. The wound simply isn’t that serious, and the supplies are limited. 

“You can keep talking if it helps distract you,” Shion reminds him, bringing the needle in and out of his skin once more. He looks up to see the man’s pale face turned towards the door.

Three men stand there, none of them with obvious injuries or reason to come to the clinic. One has a cord of leather wrapped around his knuckles, and another is casually holding a pistol.

That would explain why only small children were making noise. Shion frowns, trying to grasp the situation when he realizes one of the doctors already speaking.

“We can talk about it—really, really, I’ll talk,” the doctor sputters, shooting nervous glances between them and the surrounding room. He holds up his hands placatingly, trying to mitigate the situation. 

It’s Dr. Hiwamari, a trained and experienced doctor from the old Number Six. He’s been at the clinic for little more than a week, having been scouted out by Inukashi. She has a real nose for finding the midwives, or the medical students who wanted more experience. Or in Hiwamari’s case, a malpractice case that went so badly he lost his license.

“We’ll talk about it when the boss says we’ll talk about it. You been avoiding us, doc.” The man with the pistol says, his voice almost good natured. If it weren’t for the gun and the two other big men.

“Could you put that weapon down?” Shion’s voice rings, polite, but not wavering. “You don’t want to fire a shot in here. Something might explode.” Shion stays where he is, leaving his patient holding the needle. He doubts anything would actually explode, but considering his reputation for helping bring down the correction facility, he thought they would believe him.

The man with the gun scowls, but doesn’t put the gun down.

“You stay out of this, Professor. He’s got to come with us and have a little talk. He owes us big.” He gestures at Hiwamari with his chin. And if he don’t pay up,” his eyes lock on Shion. “…his employer will lend him a hand,” he smiles broadly at the young man, “right?”

“You killed the bastard. We came to get your fee back, you quack.” The biggest of the three yells grabbing the doctor by the shoulder. The other two watch with barely concealed violence. 

The doctor sputters and cries out, denying having killed anyone in cold blood. “It happens—you can’t save them all-” he’s saying, raising his hands in a defensive gesture.

Shion is moving towards the men, still speaking calmly. “If you have business, talk sensibly or leave it out of these doors,” but the big man isn’t listening.

“Trying to make like a mob doctor, but you ain’t good enough! Bet you gonna kill these people too, you scum.” He lifts the doctor from the ground, giving him a rough shake. “I’d be doing everyone a favor by bashing your brains in.”

All the while, the other two are yelling for people to get out of the way, turning over cots and hunting for something. One barrels his way to the curtained off countertop. He stops before the bottles of iodine and gauze, smiling grimly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Shion yells over the ruckus. “These supplies are for everyone.”

“Chill out, doc,” the man with the gun says, smiling crookedly. “Show us where the good stuff is and we’ll call us even.” His smile widens, showing a row of chipped, yellowing teeth. He starts pushing the iodine aside, rifling through drawers. He finds the sterile syringes, disinfectant creams as well as burn creams, and IV bags in another drawer.

Shion feels his face tightening with anger, and the sudden heat in his ears. “Those medicines are not for you to take. I don’t know what Doctor Hiwamari did or how much money you’re talking about, but leave it out of this clinic!” His voice is raised, carrying over even the scuffle of patients rushing to leave, and the sounds of the precious medical supplies being raided.

The third man with leather wrapped around his fist pulls Shion away from the counter and tosses him bodily to the floor. He lies there for a moment, stunned and dazed. He landed badly on his back and struggles to get to his feet. The hands of the laborer pull Shion back.

The man shakes his head sharply. “It’s not worth it. You’ll get more.” He grunts, his forehead shining with sweat.

Sure enough, the goons shove what they can into a bag—mostly the empty syringes and strong pain medication. The man with the gun gives Shion and the other patients a threatening look as they start for the door while the biggest man puts the doctor over his shoulder.

Shion can’t just watch. He forces himself out of the laborer’s grip. “Leave him alone! Put him down and talk reasonably—”

The big man grins. “You want me to put ‘im down? Whatever you say, professor.” He tosses the guy down, and hauls him up again. “He’s coming. Right doc? You’ll come when I say.”

Dr. Hiwamari is pale and winded. He stares into the big man’s face, examining the narrowed eyes and toothy smile. He stands, and brushes himself off. “Your boss understood.” He says softly. “He understands my value. I’ll talk to him, and only him. If you have a message from your boss, you say it, but leave it out of here.” He slides his gaze to Shion and the wreck of medical supplies behind him.

“I gotta message. Get your ass to the boss and you can explain your value yourself. I got orders to bring you.”

The doctor swallows and shifts his weight awkwardly. “I’ll come,” he mutters, and shifts his eyes nervously around the room. “Let me get my bag.” Dr. Hiwamari says quietly, his eyes casting about like a wary bird.

The patients and midwives stare at the doctor, their gazes hard and unmasked. A man moves to stand in front of a rail-thin woman, his eyes cold as stones.

Dr. Hiwamari moves slowly, carefully picking his way between cots and chairs. He takes his black bag and heads for the door with the air of a man going to a funeral. Or his own execution.

Finally, the trio, doctor in toe, leaves. A woman sighs, and a few groups start muttering amongst themselves. Shion feels their eyes on him, and the heavy weight of their need.

The door opens again, and the entire room erupts into noise. Inukashi and two dogs stand there, the sun making her dark hair shine. “Oi, Shion, your doc flew the coop.” She calls. “What were those creeps doing here?” She wrinkles her nose. “I told you not to let the cleanup crew in here a thousand times if I did once—”

“They ran off with Dr. Shion’s supplies, the thieves,” one of the midwives barks. Her name is Maho, or maybe Maj, Shion can’t recall. “Just waltzed in here and took them right off the counter.” Her voice is indignant, and challenging.

Inukashi’s dark eyes scan the overturned cots, and the disarray on the shelves. “These guys can still reach them.” She nods at the dogs, her own face feral in the harsh light from the street. “Rip their tendons. Taking the meds back would be no sweat.” Her voice is level, and her cool look assessing.

Shion shakes his head and sighs. He rights a chair, and picks up the rolls of gauze and medical scissors. Cleanup will have to wait. “They didn’t take much.” Shion gestures to the laborer to sit down. “I need to finish the stitches,” he reminds him, going to the water faucet to wash his hands afresh.

Inukashi’s lip twitches up, but her eyes don’t lose the contemplative look. “You’re too soft, Shion.”

Shion smiles brightly, and sits back down on his stool. He’ll be busy until after lunch, probably, until one of the other nurses or medical students comes in to take his place.

Inukashi weaves her way through the patients and sits next to the laborer. “Your mom wants to see you, and all those brats.” To Shion, it seems she’s trying to smooth things over. 

Shion nods absently, and makes short work of the stitches. He puts a small amount of topical antibiotic over the cut. “Inukashi, would you get me a role of gauze and scissors, please?” He asks, dabbing the cream over the red line. “Keep it clean and covered.” He says, holding the man’s gaze, and begins to tell him how to care for his stitches and to watch for signs of infection.

Inukashi hands him the gauze and scissors.

Shion smiles his thanks.


	3. A Quiet Refuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shion visits his mother at the orphanage.

_A Quiet Refuge._  
by smilingcrescent

Shion feels his eyes slide shut for the dozenth time. His volunteer work at the clinic had ended some time ago, and he was crashing towards the end of his shift. Fortunately, good people attended the medical school with him, and there was usually someone to take midnight shifts. He always suspected it had something to do with a volunteer requirement in the curriculum, but that was beside the point.

Shion thinks of his mother’s bakery, of the dozens of breads neatly laid out...cheese bread, french baguette, and muffins dance in his head.

On his way to the foster care facility, Shion leans against the compartment wall, feeling the train move beneath him in a lulling manner. It wasn’t a free service, but Shion tries his best to serve the community in as many ways that he can.

He almost missed his stop. Shion shoulders his bag and follows another person out. The station here is well maintained, though it hasn't a single station attendant. it’s a small platform left over from when No. 6 was a flourishing metropolitan. The trains are all relics from that time; some clever maneuvering and proper guard kept even the worst looters out of the expensive machines, even though a few people had attempted to steal iron from the tracks themselves. But they had promised a better life for the citizens of the Western Quarter, and the former privileged citizens all expected to keep much of their high-class lifestyle.

He looks around at the station, makes his way up the stairs, and taps his train-pass to the sensor. They did away with the heavy screening of individual ID cards, ripped out the scanners in most public places, and reinstalled a few of them at the new stations as commuter pass readers. The programing wasn’t so difficult, and from his work with the cleaning robots, Shion knew a bit about how they’d done it. He looks at the ticket gate now, watching his balance flash.

Lost Town was as pretty as always. The cobbled streets speak of modern influence, but not the post-modern architecture the city proper had flaunted. The streets are still narrow and crowded, with people dressed for the weather instead of sporting temperature controlling fabric. Shion’s eyes flicker to the opposite side of the street.

He walks with a few other pedestrians to the main street, and then he turns into a side street. His bicycle is still at the lot, and he unchains it after tapping another recycled sensor.

A girl across the street smiles at him, and as he slips the key into the lock, he grins back. She’s sporting a colorful skirt and a plush toy, and he can’t remember her name, but she knows him. All the children around here do.

Shion murmurs a quiet, “I’m off to the school,” and nods again in her direction as he pulls out of the lot.

“Have fun!” She chirps, waving at him with both hands. The plush toy, it turns out, is a red-ish, purple-ish bear. It’s a strange color, but she seems quite fond of it, the way she waves it about.

Mounting the bike easily, Shion nods one last time in her direction, and then he lazily pushes down the street. Riding a bike is one of the few things he missed in the Western District; the feel of the wind in your hair, the thrill of speeding down hills and around curves. Now, it’s still a popular way to travel around the city, and a few bike lots have been developed all over. Even in the Western District, even in Lost Town. It’s a marked improvement.

By ‘the school,’ he really meant to say the foster care facility, but that kind of name doesn’t inspire acceptance. So it’s the _self-reliance and support school for juveniles,_ or just _the school,_ to people around here. He has to ride a good 15 minutes before he’s close enough to see it, but the cluster of buildings, dorms, and gaggles of children make him smile. He hurriedly drops his bike off, locking it again, and makes his way. 

Time to say hello.

“Mom!” He calls out, opening the door. Delicious smells fill the interior, and a wave of warm air washes over him. Every day is a bread-baking day, but spring hails sweet and tangy berries, fresh puddings, and all sorts of early squash dishes. “Did you want to talk to me?” His voice rings over the chatter of kids, from little kids sitting around “judging” snacks to older kids cleaning, and some teens almost Shion’s age actually running around baking, cooking, and generally messing up the kitchen. It was gloriously chaotic, and exactly the kind of place Karan loved to be.

“Welcome back!” His mother’s voice floats down the hall. His mother is not in the first kitchen—an eighteen year old is apparently in charge there. Said eighteen- year old eyes Shion like _Shion_ was either a teacher, or a potentially hungry doctor who might criticize the student’s work.

Shion smiles at him, and then looks past him to the kitchen table where two orphans sit. One boy wears a blue apron, and the other wears sturdy brown pants and beige long sleeved shirt. Both looked to be in their mid-teens. “Nah, can’t stay much longer. I might be back for afternoon lessons, but me and a few others will be taking the crops to _ichiba,_ ” the market, “in the West District.”

“You studying?” the other boy smiles slowly, lowering his eyes to show that he doesn’t quite believe him.

“I’m learning about artichokes, asparagus, beets and carrots tomorrow!” the farming student grins from ear to ear. “So what if I skip a reading class? Everybody’s gotta eat. If I have the food, who’s going to care if I can read some dusty old novel?”

“What did you say?” Karan pokes her head out of the second kitchen, and a fresh wave of smells floods Shion’s senses. She props the door open for just a minute before calling, “Yōsuke!” She says happily.

The two teens start, but when they realize she’s not looking at them, they relax and continue their conversation.

“Watch the second kitchen for me, would you?” She pats a little girl’s hair and pushes a hair net off, dropping it into her apron pocket as she makes her way towards her son.

Her eyes were lined, but strong. Looking at her, it’s easy to see that Karan aged during Shion’s absence, but now, long after, her resilience returned. She saw her little boy talk down a mob, practically fight his way into a reconstruction committee, and secure his position with sound words and intelligent plans. He learned how to talk to people, something he’d had trouble with before, and he learned how to express what he wanted.Karan saw her son work for what he believed in, but she didn’t just watch anymore.

She fought for a children’s school, one especially for orphans and kids from difficult situations. She fought for a program to teach them skills, and then volunteered to do just that. The children loved and adored her, and every day, she was happy.

Shion smiles at his mother. “You wanted to see me?”

Karan laughs. “Of course I did. You haven’t visited in days!” She sighs a little, and lets the second kitchen’s door swing closed. The new boy in charge looks a little harried, but he smiles at Shion. Shion, who acted like a big brother to anyone who let him.

Her affection is catching, and Shion finds himself laughing softly. “I guess so,” he comments, and gestures to the main door. “Can we step outside?” he pulls at his collar, rubbing a little at his marked skin. The kitchen is always a little hot, and the ventilation systems don’t do much to help for the heat.

Shion’s hair shines a golden red in the light. “Do you have enough personnel?” he asks quietly, eyes flickering to the cluster of houses surrounding the bakery. Rather than a large apartment complex or a real school dorm, they’d built houses. The children shared rooms on the ground floor next to a common room, and a private room and office was reserved for dorm supervisors.

“We’re always looking for volunteers if you know any,” she smiles again. “Do you think Inukashi could spare some time to give a lecture?” She asks hopefully, though Shion isn’t sure what she expects Inukashi to lecture on.

“Um?” He shrugs. “She dropped Sion off for daycare once, didn’t she? I think that means she has interest.” Sort of. Technically, she dropped little Sion off to learn to _read_ , and then sat herself down in one of the remedial classes. Once it was maths for accountants, and once it was Shion’s environmental awareness lecture. At the time, she’d _said_ it wasn’t out of curiosity, but out of a sense of responsibility to keep Shion from speaking over the little kids’ ability to understand.

Karan nods, covering her mouth as she laughs softly. “Yes, she does have awareness at least.” She’s all smiles, but her tone is serious. “But I think it would be good for her to _lead_ a group. She has skills. She should be allowed to feel knowledgeable and be empowered by it.”

Shion tilts his head. “I think she doesn’t need to teach to do that, mom.” He says slowly. “Let her watch a group of toddlers. Let her take over for one of the married couples for a few hours. She knows about _family,_ and she knows about protecting bonds.” His voice slows, and he says absently, “Not all people need to be teachers to know they’re valuable,” he says slowly, thinking.

Thinking of Safu giving presentations on human psychology, of her scientific and straightforward approach. _She would have taught,_ he thinks, and his heart constricts.

Karan frowns. “But she could show them how to…make repairs?” She says hopefully. “You don’t have to put Inukashi in a _homemaker_ mold either, Shion,” her tone is light, and he suspects she’s saying that just out of habit.

He grins at his mother. “Or we could have her teach about managing a tenement. She wants to do that, you know. We could ask her to tell us about when No. 6 kept the Western Quarter separate, and how people survived then…and have her describe how things have changed. Talk about the tenements and the housing crews, and about that one stint she did as a roof tiler.” He can still remember her scrambling up half-built tenements, pocketing scraps and selling them later, walking about barefoot on hot roves as she tiled them. She was as agile as a monkey, and afraid of nothing.

Four years later, the building development had mostly slowed down—everyone had a roof over their heads, and small details like _hot_ water were being added to a few West District public places and whatever houses could afford it. They hadn’t needed her anymore, and she was back to thinking like a tenant holder, but this time with a repaired hotel and a handful of kids her age to make repairs.

“But I can only ask her,” he adds belatedly. “She has to decide for herself.”

Karan closes her eyes, shifting her weight to her heels. “I know, dear. I know.” She takes his hand and pulls him into a hug. “You always say that.” Whether it’s to the committee, or to the volunteer groups, Shion insists the same thing. _For the people. By the people._ Quoting something that Karan hasn’t had the time to read. “But why don’t you join me inside? There’s a dorm meeting taking place soon, and I’d appreciate it if you could monitor the discussion.” She breaks away, looking at her son with pride.

Shion nods. “Of course.” He’s smiling too, and he flicks a piece of his hair behind his ear. “But I’ll see you at dinner?”

Karan nods. “I better get back to the kitchens, check on everything.” Her voice is soft, and she’s thinking of a certain little girl who wants to practice mixing.

She goes back inside the kitchen, leaving Shion to make his way towards the school building. As he treads along, he watches the sky. It darkens to a purple, and the sunlight is golden on his cheek. He can see a bit of his own hair reflecting the gold rays, and he can see a shadow—

—where there ought not be one. He turns to see a small gaggle of children, some of them in distinctive colors—black and a strip of orange tied to an arm, to an ankle. One child in hand-me-downs, eyes darting about guiltily. The others are stony eyed, fierce in demeanor and walking tall.

Shion wants to call them in for dinner, wants to let them know they’d have a place here, too. But if he raises his voice, they will scatter.

He watches them go, and wonders if the city’s improvements are _good enough_ for a forest god.

Then he makes his way to the school entrance, shuffles out of his shoes, and prepares to show children how to be attentive listeners. That much, at least, he knows he can do.  
\----

tbc...


	4. Under fire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone appreciates Shion's attempt to improve the living standards of the Western District.   
> _Fire. It all comes back too quickly._

Shion looks at the desk and sighs. It’s a mess of papers, diagrams, and small sample dishes. There are even a few sketches— and a small scattering of dried seeds lying in wait. Or that’s how they seemed to Shion. 

He takes himself away from the desk in favor of the window. The day isn’t as bad as it could be…the spring rains haven’t started in earnest, so it’s still warm and clear enough to make a walk tempting. Even to a science-driven young man.

He leans out the window, catching a breath of fresh air. There’s a scent of pollen and new grass, a bit of rain to come, probably, but not anytime soon. Really, it’s a perfect day for growing things. Shion reaches for a hat out of habit and searches around for a pair of gardening gloves.

“Mister Shion,” a voice calls.

Shion turns to the young girl in the hallway. It’s one of Lili’s friends, but he can’t seem to place her name. Only her face. “Just Shion,” he says awkwardly, offering a smile that never seems to do any good.

She ignores that, and lifts a burlap bag. “We got you the seeds you wanted,” she chirps. “We’re going to sort them into the gifting bags and check the irrigation, right?” She smiles broadly, and because of her years, her enthusiasm is catching. Shion wonders if the older researchers see him in the same way.

“Yes, that’s good…” he mumbles, spotting the gloves and making for them. “But I can check the canals. Your mother wouldn’t like you—”

She lifts her chin. “We won’t be alone, and the Western District isn’t a—”

“—isn’t a pit of snakes,” he finishes for her. He shakes his head, wondering how his own arguments get used against him. “Yes, I know.” He almost bites his tongue. That particular phrase started in opposition of _him._ Or that’s how it’s been used for the past several years, thanks to the distinctive red marking that climbed from his ankle to his neck. 

At last he relents. “If you go in a group of three or four, and if you promise to check in before and after you get back.” He finds himself looking at the top of her head rather than her eye, lost in thoughts of fertilizers, germination procedures and seeds.

“When are you leaving?” he asks glancing at the clock. It’s barely mid-afternoon. Too early to catch the farmers after work.

She shrugs. “We haven’t sorted them out yet. Takahashi and Sharpe will probably be back with the rest of the bags we need soon…and then we’ll sort. So…maybe an hour or two?” she hazards. It’s interesting that she came to talk to him at all, since they weren’t even halfway done with the task, but…that was likely the way teenagers work.

Shion relaxes into a smile. “All right then. I’ll be in the garden for a bit, and I’ll come collect you and the seeds at four.” He glances at the clock again, hoping that’s enough time for them to finish. “Or maybe four-twenty…”

She beams at him, and happily swings the sack back up and over her shoulder. Her bony wrists seem too fragile for the job, but she’s done it before. Will probably do it again.

“We aren’t only going to the west block…” Shion reminds her. “We have several places to stop along the way. Make sure you have—”

“—yes, yes. We know, Mr. Shion.” And she skips out of the office.

Shion looks at the desk, the pile of notes that _might_ just change the fortunes of the poor. He’s pooling the resources he has, looking for the perfect decision. The one that’ll bring enough people into a happy, more plentiful life…if only that could settle the children and could appease the adults…  
He leaves for the garden.

* * *

He puts the gloves into the drawer, hangs the tools back on the hooks, and looks at the clock. There’s just enough time to get to the meeting point, but something makes him pause. He looks at the top of the window, sure, somehow, that something had landed there. But when he averts his eyes, he sees a handful of seeds spilled out on the floor.

Something whizzes and glass shatters, just as Shion bent to confirm the seed drops. The air crackles and fills Shion’s nose with the smell of acrid smoke and oil.

Fire.

It all comes back too quickly. It’s exactly as Shion remembers it—faster than believable when it’s electric, and surprisingly noxious when it’s some kind of oil incinerating his desk. That noise—something else has broken through the glass barrier, and people’s voices make an all new cacophony. Shion’s mind freezes for a moment as memories surge over him. Safu—gone. The whole city in chaos, the correction facility in flames.

But a squeak of warning alerts him, and Tsukiyo runs up his shoe and into Shion’s hand.

He stirs. Coughs. “Fire.” He murmurs once, and then louder. “ _Fire!_ ” He has a spare lab-coat in hand, whipping it on the desk in definite motions while determining both strength and persistency. _It’s no good,_ he thinks. _I’ll need the extinguisher._ He drops the lab coat, reaching instead for the canister, but his lungs are a mass of smoke and pain. Nausea overwhelms him, and sweat pours down his arms and back. Shakily, he stumbles to the corner. There. The extinguisher—

— but hands are pulling him back and down, and more noise fills his head. He can see more smoke—though it’s only been some thirty seconds— and Morita is over the extinguisher, mouth covered with an improvised mask. While he watches, Shion is dragged towards the door.

“What—” he sputters. A half dozen possibilities keep him guessing, and none of it’s clear because his mouth is parched and eyes are streaming. The sensation is too familiar, even if the last memory was years past.

“Morita has the fire. Some of the others have got the front. We’ve got it, Shion. Just stay down-- _you’re_ the target here!” The words are too loud, and pitched lower than he’d have thought natural for Shimazaki. But as responsible and in command as they are, Shion can’t stop thinking.

“No—” he chokes on the smoke. “—I _can’t_ just stay here—” and with speed that surprises everyone, he’s out of her grip and half-running, half ducking for the far window.

A shout of surprise. Shion hears the hiss of steam from the extinguisher. He reaches the window. Counts the seconds, and knows that if he opens the window before the fire is out he could feed the flames.

With a quick step, he turns from the room, evacuating with a call of his shoulder. “I’m out of the room Ms. Shimazaki,” he calls.

She’s quick to follow suit, but Shion is down the hall, tearing through the doors.

In front of the research office, he sees more than the usual researchers and volunteer students. There’s a noisy, fluctuating group that flails as it surges, that seems less human than it seems a complex organism. Something that can only be reasoned with if they _hear_ a human voice.

Shion leans against the building wall, catching his breath. Then he strides forward, forgetting his too-hot lungs, the taste of smoke on his tongue. He only stops walking once he has the group fully in view.

Afternoon sunlight glints off the window shards, painting a mosaic of light in the grass. The same light reflects in his hair, making a halo of it as he lifts his face. “Look at what you’re doing!” he shouts, and his voice is momentarily lost amidst the noise. “Look at what you’ve done—” he gestures to the broken glass, to the smoke that pours out.

He lifts the hem of his coat, and a handful of seeds he managed to keep through the confusion. More than a few people are watching now—and though others shout back at him, many people listen. Many people watch as the young man throws up his arms and appeals for—

—for reason? Unsure, but determined. The very picture of the same boy who’d stood against a decayed totalitarian regime without a weapon on him, or any idea of what had already been said four years ago.

He shakes his head. “We’ve been working hard for years now. Taking back the city, rebuilding it to be safe, sound, and dependable.” He gestures to all of them, and pulls his head back down, shutting his eyes to the scene before them. “You can protest. You can tell us how you feel. But don’t waste what we have. Don’t reject your own civil liberties and powers for a moment of, of destructive waste.” His voice shakes, but his eyes are pleading when he looks up again.

“What is this about?” He asks quietly, when silence ricochets back on him. He isn’t sure if anyone can hear.

He wavers on his feet, and someone from the office takes his elbow. Supports him.

A few people have started to disperse. By the looks of the grass, more than half have disappeared into the surrounding forest area. It’ll be difficult for anyone to be questioned by the police. But Shion doesn’t have anything else to say. Feeling drained, disappointed and not entirely sure if any progress had stuck to his city, he moves away.

He turns to the other researchers, and says, “I’m going to go clean up.” It’s all he ever does, it seems.

Back in the office, he bends down, touching a few of the charred, wet mess of his desk with his spare lab-coat rag. Then he looks to the tiny mound of seeds, a few burnt, a few turned to dust. He scoops them all into his hands, and closes his eyes.

 _This is my fight._ he breathes. _This is where I belong._

At the fringe of society, fighting for both sides. Part of neither.  
He looks down at the tiny dots of seeds on his hands, and he wonders. Starts to mentally reorganize his knowledge on the scene—and sighs. But it’s what he does best; making something of what remains.

So he smiles into his sleeves, and listens to the ventilation system. Listens to the sounds of a city that’s barely back to “normal.”

And he smiles a slow, sad smile.

They will make it. It will be enough.

And that’s all that really matters.

\-----


	5. The Wild.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nezumi finds his way back to the city.

The Wild, by smilingcrescent

* * *

Nezumi sighs and looks up at the night sky. A low sound reverberates in his throat; the beginning of a melancholy song. He hums a verse, and feels it inexplicably become something almost hopeful. Traveling through the wild as he is, he rarely has to speak. But he does sing...it’s as much a part of him as the old forest of his early childhood.

So close to the city that tangled his dreams and warped the land, he feels uneasy. More than that. He feels an old anger, inexplicable and tearing. But unlike the manner years ago, it is tempered by sadness, and quiet reflection. He pauses now to think.

Much of the world is not habitable by humans, except for the six cities. _Outside the city, people live like animals, killing one another and barely have enough to eat._ That’s what the government told the submissive residents of No. 6. But Nezumi knows that it isn’t entirely true. The Mao survived, prospered even against all odds-- in spite of global warming, the last war, the machine-made pestilence and famine-- and there are others too. There were always others, people who didn’t live in the cities.

The “atomic wasteland” recovered slowly, but it recovers bit by bit. Plants adapt to the hotter climate or die off. Even the areas affected by radiation grow on, in spite of the half-lives and poisons leached into the ground years ago.

Nezumi inspects the desert-like plants and sees scratchy “teddy bear” trees and the occasional Palo Verde tree. In the distance, he can see the gentle slopes of more deciduous trees, walnut and apple, greener trees that can be called a forest. 

He’s coming home.

He walks around the dried out tree, careful to avoid a snake. He considers spearing it with his walking stick for a meal, but thinks too long. The snake is hidden among the shadows of the tree.

He adjusts his cowl, considering his travels. He’s seen the sea again, visited a fishing village. He’s preformed in No. 4 and harvested desert fruits with a passing group of ecologists.

Is it enough? Has he explored the world long enough to forget the dead men’s faces, to forgive the city that killed his family? A dark mood settles over him, remembering the dead.

Shion’s face twisted in anger, his face bloodless except his ears blushed pink. His hands, gripping the gun and his eyes _too_ wide. He wants Shion to tremble, to stop, to think and remember himself. Only Shion is supposed to be moved by compassion for the weak—to feel and rage against petty actions. Not be moved to try and strangle a dying man, or his hand to be forced into violent defense. 

Nezumi shakes his head and wipes his brow. Even the coolness of the night is starting to feel warm, or at least cool as opposed to cold. He remembers Shion, casually pondering the problem of cooking in the heat of summer in the underground room, innocently expecting to still live there.

A crack farther ahead, followed by a rustle of a larger animal attracts his attention, and he pauses again, listening.

Dirt and under-brush rustle, dislodged by running mouse feet. Cavart bounds onto Nezumi’s boot, and scurries up his cloak as fast as his claws will carry him.

Nezumi may not have the instant trust of the mice or rats like Shion has, or the ability to con an angry mob, but Nezumi knows his mice. He has _always_ had a way with small animals; birds and rabbits will come closer to him, even gather around him if he sings. His little spies have an uncanny intelligence, and after so many years with him, he can sense their minds, their meaning.

Nezumi whispers a word in Mao, a word meaning “people,” or “human.” The mouse gives an affirmative, and Nezumi releases his knives from their sheathes on his arms. He trots towards cover at a diagonal. The spindly teddy tree doesn’t offer much protection, but it gives him a chance to visually confirm his opponent.

A man staying still or moving quietly is hard even for Nezumi’s eyes to spot, but a big man dashing after him is easy. He also has a knife, though it’s black with grease and doesn’t reflect. Something about the man is instantly recognizable.

A high pitched screech launches the memory into place. _Rats._ Sasori. Nezumi doesn’t sheath his knives, or stand out of his defensive position, but he does run into the open and call out. Not a yell or even a biting remark, but a line of a song.

“Down by the side of Arakawa, the lover-thief waited that night,” he sings, his voice low and mellow.

Sasori stops approaching and stands up a hair straighter. “Nezumi,” his voice is gravelly, but not so much emotionless as uninterested. “You’re quite a ways away from the main entrance to the city.”

“Oh?” Nezumi smiles under his hood. “And you finally gave up a life in the caves, then?” He gestures to the trees behind Sasori. “Living in the forest now?” His lips thin into a smile. “That makes you as much of a deserter as me.” Nezumi cocks his head. “Maybe _all_ of you.”

Sasori snorts. “We left together under the old man’s direction. Don’t try to lump us in with you.”

Nezumi lets his crooked smile fall away, still watching Sasori. Sasori was the Old Man’s dog, a resolute man who stuck to the rules with little variation. He was the first to notice Nezumi’s way with the animals, though the Old Man was the one to use it as a name. Sasori seemed as emotionless as Nezumi tried to be.

“So are you going to try and kill me after all?” Nezumi’s voice is smooth and smoky. “I have more right to be here than you do, you know.” He jerks his chin to the forest. “My people lived here for generations.”

Sasori considers Nezumi silently. “We won’t kill you. You can come to the village, or go to the cities. I don’t care. Just know that we have sentries watching.”

Nezumi scans the surrounding area, looking for more hidden sentries, but finds none. “Watching me in particular, or watching for civilians?”

Sasori’s voice is level and cold as gravel. “Both.” He points to the south west. “There’s a stream coming off the river some ways that way. There’s more big game, these days, too.”

Nezumi raises an eyebrow. “Game?” He remembers the years with the old woman who saved him. They saw little more than rabbits and wild dogs in the woods when they ventured there at all. With the Mao burned out and not there to cultivate, much of the life bled out of the area. He can’t remember what animals lived there before the fire, but he doubts there was much ‘big game.’ Not with a parasite like No. 6 so close to kill it all off.

Sasori only nods. “But if you’re satisfied with snakes and squirrels, so be it,”

“Or wild onions, nuts and berries. And if there’s a stream, I can find roots easily enough.” Nezumi looks to the forest in the distance, both close and far. “I can find food fine.”

Sasori nods, and turns his back on Nezumi, not caring that he was being rude. He walks far enough away that even Nezumi’s eyes can’t track him in the darkness.

“The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. / Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.” He mutters to himself. Nezumi sighs, and resumes picking his way through the dead trees and scrub. He’ll need to be more serious about keeping an eye out for food, and find a place to hole up in for the next day.

He closes his eyes and thinks. White hair glistening in the moonlight-- the day he followed Shion out into the darkness.

He settles his weapons and walks on.

* * *


	6. Reunion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nezumi see an open window...he takes the opportunity.  
>  _“Tea or cocoa, is it? I see your skills as host have improved.” He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, or his sarcasm."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **on the Story within a story:** it is a combination of a Japanese folk story Urashima Tarō and a Russian folk tale The Sea King's Daughter rewritten in my own style. ♥

_Reunion_ by smilingcrescent  


* * *

Nezumi sits on the roof, leaning against solar panels and clay roof shingles. It’s late enough that he doesn’t hear much activity within, but something tells him that Shion is inside, and awake. Nezumi sighs, and considers the night.

He has been sitting there for nearly an hour, contemplating.

Nezumi entered the city as quiet and unnoticed as a ghost. After some time, he set to the path he knew he would take as soon as he saw the city on the horizon. But the underground room was empty, and both the luxury apartment and Lost Town bakery are unoccupied. Shion had moved.

The road to Shion’s place was unfamiliar, and almost unexpected. _A place between the forest, city and West District....he really did think he could make a third option._ Nezumi’s face is grim and set. Shion is still an enigma, even with four years to ponder his particular nature. A shiver runs through his limbs, though the night is warm.

The wind blows through the nearby trees, and the night sky stretches out endlessly before him. Flowering trees line the light-rail station nearby, and there is even a long line of black walnut and apple trees not far from the building. The earth is fertile-- dancing with life, even so early into spring.

From the roof, he considers the small groves. They appear largely untended-- _by design or lack of personnel?_ Weeds and foreign saplings play hide and seek among the ram-rod straight rows. A pungent, burnt smell permeates the pace, present in every gentle breath of the wind. A creeping inspection revealed that the damage is mostly limited to buildings, and revealed signs of repair even when the stench is fresh.

Nezumi reads the sign of fire and concludes arson. _So Shion lacks the authority to kick down nay-sayors._ Though the thought suggests a less than recovered No. 6, Nezumi finds some comfort in it. He may have named Shion the chief rebuilder, but actually seeing the ditz in any sort of power seems impossible. _If Shion ever has that kind of total control...nothing would change at all._

And still he sits, and waits.

A moist, heavy smell is on the air. It will rain sometime tonight. Nezumi finds himself on his feet, standing before the open window, taking in the scene before him. But before he can stride in, or sit back down out of sight, a voice calls to him.

“Won’t you come in now, Nezumi? I’ve got bread enough for two, and cocoa or tea if you’d like it.” Shion’s voice barely carries through the window and out into the night. His tone is conversational, light and unassuming.

Nezumi stoops into a crouch, and leap in, landing nimbly on one knee and foot. He cocks his head, an amused expression on his face. “Tea or cocoa, is it? I see your skills as host have improved.” He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, or his sarcasm.

Shion’s face is radiant with his smile. The few steps he takes seem like a bound, and in no time at all, he is pulling Nezumi to his feet, urging him into an embrace. Shion buries his face in Nezumi’s neck. His shoulders shake from laughter.

“Welcome home,” he half sings, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. Nezumi’s breath catches in his throat, raw emotion sending contradictory messages. But Shion’s smile falters and crumbles. Shion looks nearly as heartbroken as he did all those years ago atop the hill.

“Look at you,” Nezumi chides. “Getting teary eyed already?” He feels the tiredness and caution fall away from him, relaxing in the unfamiliar room with a familiar boy. Nezumi brushes a strand of gossamer -white hair out of Shion’s face. “Is it such a tragedy to see me again?”

Shion’s lip actually trembles, but he laughs again. The smile is back, in spite of the tears. “Nezumi-- it’s been four years. And it’s been a hard week...” Shion could sound bitter, might have a hint of complaint hidden somewhere in those two statements, but Nezumi can’t find them. He wonders if he’s forgotten what Shion’s complaints sound like, or if Shion is only stating the facts.

“Save your tears for something truly heartbreaking,” Nezumi teases, two fingers delicately brushing at Shion’s cheek.

Shion blinks slowly, his smile still shaky.

Nezumi snorts and looks away. “Though I suppose your burned research center and home are cause enough to shed tears,” he says carefully, measuring his words.

“That was—“

“Less than a week ago, by the smell and general lack of repairs.”

Shion looks to the open window. “We’re handling it.” Shion could sigh, could fret and pull his hair, but he’s only staring out the window, looking at the night sky.

Nezumi looks at Shion and sees many things. First, he sees a young man, slight and fine featured; almost an adult. But unexpectedly, he sees a bit of the wild, too….With the red scar against his pale skin, he’s reminded of bramble kisses. Red berries on white snow…or bloody impressions from thorns. The thought surprises him. Without thinking, perhaps even to change the course of his thoughts, he speaks.

“Ah, the things I could show you,” Nezumi breathes, and as an afterthought, he cocks his head and continues. “And you me.” He fingers the sleeve of Shion’s night-clothes. “Anything for me to slip into?”  
Shion nods. “Sure.” His hand slips into Nezumi’s for a moment, and almost reluctantly, he pulls away.

Nezumi takes advantage of the moment and walks the perimeter. He finds a bit of a surprise when he realizes the room is not equipped with all the privileges of rank that Shion’s committee status might garner. He shifts to avoid upsetting a potted plant, and the layout strikes him as remarkable. Windows here and there to let in light, plants to keep the air fresh and room cheery. Unlike the sparse, eco setting of the research labs, this was comfortable.

Shion returns with something slung over one arm, and two mugs in hand. His smile is so innocently happy Nezumi doesn’t know what to make of it. “So which is it?” he asks carefully, setting the two on a hall table. “Tea or cocoa?”

Nezumi cocks his head. “So how is it?” he crosses to meet Shion, and the proffered pajamas aren’t quite as bad as he’d have expected. “At last I checked, you were...”

“...recovering?” Shion suggests “But I’ve been calling into the meetings, and researching at home.” He pauses. A hint of some emotion glistens in his eyes. He seems tired, but his eyes are severe. “I’ve been waiting.”

_And not just these few days._ The words are left unspoken between them. “About--” he clears his throat. “It’s late. Let me tell you a story, and we’ll talk again in the morning…” he closes his eyes and nods. “To your earlier question; tea in the morning…Cocoa would do nicely.”

He watches Shion out of the corner of an eye, drops his traveler’s pack to the ground, and turns to Shion subtly. Wonders what the boy would do. He toes off his shoes, loosens his arm guards, and rustles his clock off his shoulders. Shion is touching a spoon to the cocoa, his eyes wide—he had indeed noticed. Nezumi bites back a grin.

Reflecting on it, Nezumi touches a row of buttons on a sleeve and moves a few steps. He shrugs out of the cloak and folds it, settling it neatly on the couch—loveseat, one might call it—and smiles slowly. He glances back at Shion with an actor’s grace and skill; Shion may not notice, but he’s watching Nezumi, too, and his body language speaks of many things.

As Nezumi straightens the laundry, he looks back at the familiar figure, strangely made new by distance and time. He has a teasing smile as he removes the cloth, and Shion asks blithely, “Would you like a shower?”

Nezumi laughs aloud. “An invitation?” He grins.

Shion turns reflectively. “I suppose you’ve already washed, then?” He runs his eyes up Nezumi’s bare arms, and a smile plays at his lips. He speaks seemingly without thinking. “You wouldn’t have showed so much before,” he notes. “I never saw your—”

With a smile that could count as devious or romantic, Nezumi interrupts again. “I didn’t know you wanted to see,” he purrs.

“I didn’t know you _had_ been burned, so how could I have wanted to see?” Shion quips.

Startled into another laugh, Nezumi shakes his head dumbly. “…is that all you can think of?” he smirks, turning his back to Shion again. _The idiot is probably only looking at the scars…_ he thinks irritably, but even that thought is touched with fondness. “Toss me that, and I’ll change into it.”

Shion turns from Nezumi’s near-naked form without a hint of embarrassment, and returns the night-things to him. Faster than one might normally think possible, he’s handed them off. But his delicate, strong hands grace the skin lightly. First the ghost of a scar Shion helped repair, then the others. His touch is gentle, and though it isn’t cold, his warmth is pleasant.

 

Dancing away with a smooth and effortless stretch, Nezumi changes into the soft clothes. His hands do up the buttons with quick efficiency. “Give me a few minutes…”

With a nod, Shion moves to turn the light down by switching a few switches or pulling strings, and Nezumi rethinks his laundry pile. Moving spitefully on top of a stack of Shion’s work papers, he rolls his eyes. By the time Shion has finished putting about with last minute chores, Nezumi has retreated to the sofa.

The mug feels as though it was cast to fit Nezumi’s hands. It’s a solid, heavy feel in his grip, and the warmth of the cocoa combined with the smell brings back memories. Sorrowful yet fond memories. He breathes in.

Shion sits lightly next to him, one hand gingerly on the cushion and one around his own mug of cocoa. He stirs at it absently, but can only manage to look away from Nezumi for a few seconds. He smiles, knees touching Nezumi’s, and nods encouragingly. “You were going to tell me a story.”

Feeling a little like he was teaching his little mice, Nezumi scoffs lightly. “Only as long as the cocoa lasts,” he warns, knowing that the hot chocolate ought to be drunk slowly. 

With a grin like sunshine, Shion nods. “Of course,” he says mildly. His eyes are gentle, reflecting an open mood without so much his unpredictable passion.

It’s difficult to keep a scowl in face of that. Nezumi shakes his head, looks out the window, and listens to the wind. “I’ve travelled all over the known world,” he begins, and a storyteller’s tone overtakes him. He knows better than to talk too much or too deeply tonight, when too much remains unspoken between them. Shion demands too much, too fast, and Nezumi will not be drawn into a whirlwind of questions. “But tonight,” he nods imperceptivity, “I would like to tell you about the sea.”

Shion stirs at this, and just as Nezumi knew he would, he asks, “Did you—”

“Yes. I travelled near the sea, stood by the ocean, and walked through shallow waves. I learned a bit about the people living near there, and I picked up a few stories on the way. Now shuddup and _listen._ ” Immediately after saying as much, he takes a sip of the cocoa just to annoy him. The taste is just as rich as he remembers, and the mildly creamy texture seems to play on his tongue.

“The sea is a beautiful place,” he says slowly, and he wishes, oddly, that they could be closer together. But warm drinks do not allow for such closeness.

“The waves layer one on top of another, and the sunlight glints off it in the most extravagant way. Like light hitting a thousand mirrors…it’s beautiful, but unlike a mirror, the light is soaked up by half the water, and the light is softer on the eyes.” He allows one hand to fall, and he settles it between them. “The wind is another memorable aspect,” he muses. “When there’s nothing in the way of the wind, it plays and runs, whipping your hair about one minute and softly fluffing your cheeks the next.”

Shion nods, an expression of curiosity opening his face. “Did you—”

“While staying with a few fishermen, I heard an interesting story.” He nods to himself, and pokes Shion. “Be good. Listen.”

Shion stiffens, but he then only closes his eyes. Takes a sip of the cocoa and seems to hold himself apart.

“This is that story.” He closes his eyes, and a line of melody breaks the silence. Set to a jaunty scale and in a slightly melancholy key, it seems both lively and inviting at once.

Shion starts. He seems to have forgotten the lure of Nezumi’s songs, so he unconsciously leans in, eyes wide open. He would sigh by that look, but afraid of disturbing the melody, he says nothing. Their hands brush.

Nezumi breaks off, his singer’s voice hanging in the air. He pushes Shion’s hand aside and straightens. His eyes close. He begins to speak.

“A young fisherman lived in the arms of nature, taking only what he needed to survive. He sang to the waves, and they sang back. Every net he cast, he caught fish aplenty, so when he journeyed to the nearest village to trade, he never lacked. He was happy.

“One day, he left late to the boats. As he walked down the beach, he saw a group of children gathered around. He walked closer to them, calling a cheerful hello. ‘G’afternoon to you gentle brats,’ he teased, and grinned ear to ear. ‘What is that you have?’

“The children ignored him for the large part. But one turned about, a scowl on his face. The child toed the girl next to him. ‘We’re not brats, are we? Ne, mister!’ and he gave a vicious kick.

“Thinking the boy had started a fight with his friends, the fisherman ran forward. He called, ‘Hey now, don’t fight! Don’t hurt anyone,’ and he pulled at the boy’s shoulder. From there he could see that the boy couldn’t have kicked a friend, but the poor animal between their knobbed knees and bare feet. It was a sea turtle, great and beautiful as the waves.” Nezumi stops to take a drink, and in that moment, Shion opens his mouth.

“A turtle?” Shion interrupts. He’s already finished half his drink, and his eyes reflect strangely in the light. A reddish purple instead of a depthless evening sky. “Turtles can live for hundreds of years they say. They were almost hunted to extinction during the--” he cuts himself off at Nezumi’s look. Peers into the cocoa and sucks on his spoon. It’s a childish, provocative action that takes Nezumi’s breath away. 

He watches for a moment before quietly sipping again. He continues with his mind wandering. “So the young fisherman cries out, aghast. He is unable to speak with his shock, his outrage. For the sea turtle is a sign of wisdom and good luck. To tortue it on the beach is unheard of, and near blasphemy. Only baby turtles are scavenged for food—the little ones must prove their luck before they are protected by it.” 

Shion nods absently, murmuring, “Only one in near a thousand turtles is said to grow to maturity. I don’t know if that’s exactly true, but…” he closes his mouth again and idly gives the cocoa a stir.

Nezumi rolls his eyes. “So the fisherman strikes aside their stick, pushes backt heir feet and glowers down on them like the wrath of a god. ‘Foolish children!’ he roars, and they cower before him, for a fisherman’s strength is not half-wrought. But when they have all stepped back, he quieted himself and adopted an admonishing expression. ‘This is a most severe offense. The sea gods and kings may frown on you.’

“Turning from the children then, he lies a gentle hand on the turtle’s shell. The children began to wimper and shake. They trembled with fear of the man known and the gods unfamiliar and distant. While they shook like banners in the wind, the fisherman took the net from his shoulders and cast it to the sand before them.” Nezumi mirrors the action with the cloth he customarily caries, and the action might have spilled hot chocolate if not for his care. He shifts, as though to stand, but his hands straighten instead.

Nezumi tilts his chin up. He adopts an expression unfamiliar to Shion—neither playful nor serious, but some kind of actor’s mask he doesn’t know how to interpret. “To the turtle he called, ‘Please forgive thoughtless children. They are foolish, but they are ours.’” Nezumi touches his own chest, cradling the cocoa to it as though it were something dear. “I hope they will realize the grave error of their ways.’ And with that, he lowered himself before the sea turtle, imploring.” Nezumi tilts his chin downward, eyes downcast. “‘We beg your forgiveness!’” Nezumi pauses dramatically, stirs the cocoa, and looks at Shion from beneath a curtain of hair. 

Shion is breathless, the cocoa forgotten as he watches Nezumi’s hands, his lips. Waits for glimmer of gray eyes.

Nezumi continues in a low voice. “As he waited, forehead pressed to the sand, the fisherman counted three long seconds before a scratching noise met his ears like old leather on clay. He saw the turtle’s eyes, and he knew he had done right. He cried out with joy, and delivered the turtle to the ocean’s welcoming waves.”

With a soft sigh, Shion smiles. His eyes crinkle ever-so-slightly at the corners. He finishes his cocoa first before setting it down, and touches emptied hands to Nezumi’s chilled skin. “It’s a nice story,” he begins quietly, and absently notes, “You’re cold…”

Ignoring that, Nezumi rolls his eyes. “Did that sound like an ending?” he gripes, but Shion’s hands have distracted him. He’d have to proceed carefully, lest the story fall to pieces on his tongue.

Shion likewise ignores Nezumi’s barbed comment. “Is the turtle a god?” he wonders. “Or does it represent natural harmony?” he muses.

Exasperated, Nezumi snorts. He struggles to find the story, but it comes out in pieces and clumps. “The turtle returns under the waves, slipping into the sea’s kingdom easily. The fisherman never thought to saw it again. But on the sea, alone in a small boat, he heard the voice of the wind. Saw the breath of the water. And he knew it was a sea king talking to the gods.”

Shion’s body is warm against him. He’s too close for propriety’s sake, and closer than he’d ever have dared before. It’s almost as though he was sure Nezumi would disappear if he did not bind him with his presence. 

“ ‘Child of man,’ the god called on a wispy wind, and the sea foam repeated it.” He hums a little, lost in thought, remembering Shion’s voice mingling on the wind with his own…from the tower of tears, the moon-drop….

Shion slips farther back against the cushions, and one arm slides around Nezumi’s waist for a moment, then retreats. He settles for rubbing a knot out, and Nezumi almost forgot the story completely.

But stopping here would probably confuse the idiot. “ ‘Child of man,’ the king of the sea echoes. ‘You have saved my only daughter. I owe you a boon.’

“‘I have done nothing, good king. No boon is owed,’ he called graciously, for his boat rocked and waved perilously.

“‘Dive into the sea. We have gifted you breathe under water. Stay with us for three days, and choose a bride from our kingdom. We would do this for you.’ The king proceeded, ignoring the man’s objection.” He looks at Shion, and he smiles grimly. “But the man loved his city, his sea’s surface, and he did not wish to go. He wanted only to pass peacefully, choose a human wife who understood him, and live without complication.”

The wild, raspberry colors on Shion’s neck stretched onto his back, Nezumi knew, but he hadn’t realized it in a while. “He…seems like a complacent man,” Shion says slowly. He’s barely breathing, and a haunting familiarity strikes him. “Nezumi, did you really—”

“But who can defy a king, two gods, and the ocean below him?” Nezumi asks darkly. “He would either be cast to the sea witless, or he could dive with grace.” His eyes shine. “The fisherman dove. And there, he was met with wonders. Colors he could not describe, and beautiful creatures who wore the guise of humans at one moment, and elegant, watery fish at others.” He pulls at the cocoa, and turns to watch Shion with cool eyes. “The man was fascinated. Entranced by the mystery and novelty of what he’d never dreamed.”

Shion is quiet.

“And the turtle…the turtle who he’d saved, she took the shape of a beautiful woman, and he loved her more than he loved himself.” The cooling cocoa sits in his hands, and dreamily, he takes another sip. “They talked. They argued over the benefits of land and sea, and they told tales from their people.”

“But he went back.” Shion interrupts. His hands have laced themselves around Nezumi again, and his voice is close to his ear. But Shion’s embrace is easy, close, and comfortable. Nezumi can’t be sure if there’s anything more there.

“Yes. He longed to go home.But he could not choose a wife as the king bade him. So when he was to leave, the turtle-princess gave him a gift; a box of beautiful shell and stone, coral and pearl. ‘You will not have me for a wife.’ She said sadly in parting. ‘But I shall send you words on the wind and sea. We shall meet again someday.’ But she murmured close to his ear, ‘You must never open this box, love. Look at it only, and we shall meet again.’” Nezumi falls silent.

Shion peers into Nezumi’s cup, and finds it mostly empty. “What happens next?” he asks curiously.

“He goes back.” Nezumi smiles slowly, and untangles himself with difficulty. “He returned, but found home lacking. His city, his boat, had all changed beyond recognition. None knew him, none remembered him. He had been gone a hundred years.” He gets up from the sofa.

In the corner of the room, he can see a nest of blankets and nightstand, and it looks quite comfortable. He pads over to the bed and sits down, tucking his feet up and lying down without so much as a ‘may I. ’ As Nezumi settles himself in bed, the silence continues.

“You sleep with the light on?” Nezumi asks, his question startling Shion more than his movement.

Shion shakes his head, and he too stands up. He hesitates, looking to the bedroom door, but pulls the string, sending them into darkness. “You can’t leave off there, Nezumi,” he accuses, his voice ever-so-faintly whiny. But he climbs into bed beside Nezumi, and pulls a blanket up around them. “Finish the story,”

Looking into Shion’s eyes, and then at his gently sculpted cheekbones, Nezumi ponders what to say. He begins again slowly. “In his loneliness, and longing to see the sea princess again, he looked at the box. He heard her voice, as though singing. It sounded as though she was next to him, singing a lonely song.” He captures Shion’s strong and graceful hand, closes the fingers tight. Then he pulls gently. “In fear and desperation, loneliness and heartache, he opened it. But instead of the lovely young woman coming into his hands,” he lets go of Shion. “He feels magic recede from his body, and his hands age a hundred years.”

Shion sighs. “Oh.”

“She had taken his age and hid it in the box, sang it away, and locked it tight. But his love for her was beyond understanding, and so he opened it. This brought the heavy burden of age on him like a stone, and the young fisherman was left with a blessing-curse he knew not what to do with.”

The sound of words and story reverberate in the room, blocking out the sound of wind and forest. Shion is quiet, perhaps he considers the story, or maybe memorie from his own life.

They look quietly at one another until Shion blinks. Smiling, their eyes close. There’s a world of distance between them, but for now, happiness is only a handbreadth away.

The darkness is not so lonely. It carries a song of heartbeat and soft breathing. Two young men lay on the bed, content in one another’s presence.

“Goodnight,” Nezumi murmurs.

Shion nods in the darkness. “I’m glad you’re here.” He says softly, and Nezumi realizes it.

The night is soft.

The wind still sings.

He closes his eyes, and knows it.

He’s home.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This is all I have for now...I kind of lost steam after this. (>.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do feel free to drop me a comment/critique.


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